“Of course,” Darcy murmured softly.
“Yet, you never considered how closely related are the tales of Shakespeare’s Robin Goodfellow to those of Viridios or Odin. The stories are connected, Mr. Darcy,” McKye said honestly. The former fisherman had the soul of a scholar.
Darcy pressed, “I am familiar with the stories, McKye, but I am ignorant of how those tales affect what is occurring in Mr. Rupp’s field.”
The man continued, “Beltane is a celebration of fertility and of life’s cycle: of birth, death, and rebirth. The Celts honored the cycle with offerings and sacrifices.” He nodded toward the brightly glowing spectacle.
As if he wished to hold onto his sanity, Darcy curled his fingers into a tight fist. “Could Mrs. Jacobs be a sacrifice?” His voice sounded strangely detached. The grim visage of a funeral pyre rose in his mind. Darcy rose on unsteady legs to stare off at the strangely lit horizon.
Beside him, McKye ran his fingers through his blond hair. “There be no way of knowing until we enter that circle, Sir.”
Darcy’s heart lurched. The ramifications of their words lay heavy on his soul. “We must make haste.” Without considering how they would survive this encounter, he was on a run. The others followed closely. They crossed the road and easily vaulted the fence’s stile, which marked Rupp’s land. As he and Holbrook knew the path, they took the lead. The field had been recently tilled and planted, and the way was rough going.
When he and his cousin and Elizabeth had viewed the fields a week past, they had stayed to the lanes between each of Rupp’s straight rows, but tonight Darcy led a diagonal charge across the field. Reaching the three trees which had marked Mr. Hotchkiss’s grave, Darcy stopped to assess the situation. McKye crouched beside him, with Holbrook and Castle taking cover behind a nearby hedgerow.
“What do you think?” he asked softly. They looked upon a sight Darcy had never thought to see. He strained to discern what occurred in the confines of the oddly shaped circle defined by the heavy stones in the field’s center.
Several revelers carried torches as they wove in and out among a dozen others. Most swayed from side to side and twitched to a low hum that filled the air. Two small bonfires highlighted the movements of those milling about the circle.
In his youth, when Darcy had first read the witches’ scenes from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, he had envisioned creatures of the night, and when he had told Georgiana tales of wee folks and ogres and wicked witches, Darcy had enjoyed the excitement the tales engendered. However, he possessed no point of reference in reality for what to expect when he looked upon those gathered in Rupp’s field.
McKye leaned closer. “Mr. Rupp has turned a blind eye to the comings and goings of those in the field. I would wager Rupp has a stuffed bullock’s heart studded with thorns and nails hidden up his chimney.”
“The man appeared ignorant of our purpose when the colonel and I viewed the fields previously,” Darcy protested.
McKye countered, “If Rupp had tilled the fields beforehand, how had the man overlooked Mr. Hotchkiss’s grave? Surely, Rupp knows every inch of his land as well as he knows all the freckles peppering his arms. More likely, Rupp and his missus fear the authority of the witches. Many believe in the power of those who dance with the Devil to make a woman barren or to deliver storms that will destroy a man’s crops.”
Darcy swallowed his fears. “Do you recognize any of those in the group?” It was a foolish question, but Darcy’s sensibilities lay raw.
McKye denied knowledge of any in the fairy circle.
As if he were an apparition of the night—a figure forged from fire—an undefined shape stepped through a narrow path between the two fires.
Holbrook moved up behind Darcy. “I think it best if I take Mr. Castle to the other side where he might observe the entire show.”
Darcy nodded his agreement. “Tell Castle to be prepared for all contingencies.” He returned his attentions to the circle. “What should we do, McKye?” he asked, feeling quite disjointed.
The man kept his eyes on the merry-making group. “We watch,” McKye said definitively. “And learn.” He braced himself against the tree and hunkered down for a better view. “If those in the circle have nefarious plans, they be showing themselves soon. It be nigh onto three of the clock. Those who dance beyond will leave before the dawn brings recognition.”
Darcy settled nervously beside the man. He was characteristically a patient person, but he seriously wished to be anywhere but in this field. Darcy watched as the hooded figure, who had cleverly “appeared” from the fire, circled each of those in the ring, wrapping the revelers who swayed to the growing rhythm in leafy vines. Darcy assumed the hooded figure to be a man for he was taller and broader of shoulder than many of the others, and if what Mrs. Holbrook had relayed held true, the hooded apparition was none other than Mr. Barriton. The question remaining was whether Mrs. Jacobs was among the revelers, or had the maid met another fate?
For a quarter hour, they watched in silence. Darcy half expected to see the revelers break into some sort of Bacchanalian rout. While on his Grand Tour, he had studied Italian folktales of how the goddess Diana had seduced her brother Lucifer, and how their daughter Aradia had taught the world magic and had given witches and gypsies special spells and charms. “Gypsies?” he mouthed the word. “Could the man in the hood be Gry, and not Barriton?” he wondered. Darcy peered closer—looking for any distinctive movements which would identify the group’s leader. Yet, before he could draw a conclusion, the situation changed drastically.
McKye straightened as the “hum” died. The flesh at the back of Darcy’s neck tingled as he stood and prepared to approach the group. He palmed a pistol in one hand and an unsheathed knife in another.
“It is time,” the hooded figure announced in a smoothly masculine voice of authority. Immediately, those who had been milling about the open area ceased their dance of freedom and gathered about their leader.
The cloaked figure raised his arms, and silence fell upon those assembled before him. Darcy caught McKye’s eye, and although Darcy’s nerves pleaded for action, the guard motioned for Darcy’s tolerance. They would have difficulty catching anyone in the darkness, and other than a possible trespassing violation, the people gathered before the bonfire had committed no crime. And if McKye was correct and the group had intimidated Rupp, Darcy doubted the farmer would press charges against these intruders. With that assumption in mind, Darcy reluctantly nodded his agreement.
“Who has spoken against us?” the hooded man demanded of the group.
Those within the circle parted and a woman wearing a black cloak was ushered forward by two younger women in deepgreen gowns. “This one,” an attractive blonde, who Darcy recognized as the daughter of one of the shopkeepers, declared aloud.
The girl stripped the cloak from the shoulders of the accused to reveal Mrs. Jacobs. So, Mrs. Holbrook had the right of it, he thought as he waited for McKye’s signal. Although decidedly outnumbered, the elderly maid did not cower. Instead, she raised her chin and straightened her shoulders. The woman began to recite in a surprisingly clear voice from the Book of Common Prayer, “Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.”
Those around Mrs. Jacobs struck out at her and hissed their threats, but the elderly maid did not recoil. She shouted above the melee, “Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done in Earth as it is in Heaven.” Those about the woman increased their efforts to silence Mrs. Jacobs; yet, their efforts knew little success. First, one blow and then another landed about the woman’s head, and the maid dropped her chin, but not her voice. “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”
Darcy started forward to stop the abuse, but McKye stayed his step. “One moment more,” McKye cautioned.
“Silence!” the hooded figure’s voice boomed from a place of prominence before the bonfire. Those gathered about the maid ceased their ca
terwauling, and Mrs. Jacobs staggered to a swaying halt. “Announce the charges,” the man ordered as he removed the hood. It was the distorted countenance of Woodvine’s butler, which looked out over those gathered before him. Grotesque, thought Darcy. Painted green and marked with belladonna to exaggerate the man’s wrinkly eyes. It was as McKye had said. The look of Cernunnos showed forth in Dorset’s darkness. It would be enough to frighten even the bravest of men, but the elderly maid did not react. Darcy could see the woman’s lips moving, and he imagined Mrs. Jacobs continued her prayers to ward off the impending evil.
“A direct attack on all we hold dear,” the shopkeeper’s daughter charged.
Barriton concurred, “I bear witness to the truth.” The man’s voice spoke with confidence. “To those who speak out against us there is but one possible punishment.”
McKye’s fingers released his grip on Darcy’s arm. “Move forward quietly,” he ordered.
“Death!” was the instant chant to Barriton’s assertion. “Death! Death!” The group’s voices combined.
“Death by fire in celebration of Beltane,” Barriton declared as a hum of discontent lifted the flames higher. “Bel means fire,” he announced. “And the fire demands a death and a rebirth.”
The butler caught the elderly maid in a rough grasp to shove the woman toward the fire just as Darcy and McKye stepped into the ring of light. “The lady comes with me,” Darcy shouted about the melee. Everything came to a complete halt. Even the fire seemed to retreat into itself.
“Your domain holds no preference in this most sacred place,” Barriton declared boldly.
Holbrook and Castle joined Darcy and McKye within the light. Each man held a gun pointed upon those who now huddled together. Surprisingly, neither the butler nor the shopkeeper’s daughter retreated. They held Mrs. Jacobs’ arms pinned behind the woman’s back.
McKye said, “We wish no trouble; yet, we cannot permit you to take vengeance on this woman.”
The pretty blonde’s countenance hardened into tight lines, which reflected the harshness of the slowly dying fire. “You will know my vengeance, Sir,” she said ominously.
“You only have province if I permit it,” McKye said simply. “And I have seen evils worse than any you can concoct. I am not easily persuaded.”
Darcy motioned Holbrook to the other side of the circle. “No one is to leave the ring of light. Use your weapon if necessary.”
“Aye, Sir.” The groom assumed a place of prominence in the shadows surrounding the odd-shaped ring formed by the large stones.
Darcy ordered, “If you wish to return to your homes when this madness is over, sit quietly upon the ground where you are.”
McKye cautioned, “Make no false moves. Mr. Castle is known for his accuracy with a variety of weapons.” Darcy noted how the marksman shifted to raise the gun higher.
Barriton, meanwhile, tightened his hold on Mrs. Jacobs, placing the woman between himself and Mr. Castle.
A sharp breath rushed past his lips. “You must release Mrs. Jacobs,” Darcy insisted.
Barriton shook his head in a sharp denial. The butler replied in a clipped manner, “Releasing Mrs. Jacobs earns me nothing. I die either way.”
Darcy glanced about the circle. The fire was dying, but the sky showed signs of an early dawn. The blackness had receded to a dark gray. “We can wait as long as necessary,” he warned. “Would you deny the others the right to return to their homes before they are discovered? If the approaching dawn brings them recognition, they each will know censure and punishment. And what of their families? Of those innocent in this matter?” He gestured to the dozen figures huddled together in a tight knot before him. Only Barriton, Mrs. Jacobs, and the blonde boldly stood together in defiance.
“You shall pay for your insolence,” the young woman threatened.
Darcy’s eyebrow shot high enough to meet the hair framing his brow. “What will you do to me?” he taunted. “A charm or a magic spell?” He desperately attempted to maintain his composure. “I make my own magic through the knowledge of a forgiving God, through hard work, and with the love of an excellent woman.”
The woman spit on the ground at Darcy’s feet. “That is my opinion of your God and your magic,” she snarled.
Darcy would not argue with a spiteful female. Instead, he increased his efforts to reason with Barriton. He took a half step forward. “What is Mrs. Jacobs’ offense?” He stifled the blonde’s likely reply with a dismissive gesture.
Barriton said bitterly, “You have seen the lady’s work: miniature gorgons, witch’s balls and bottles, and painted eyes.” Something in the butler’s tone had Darcy regarding the man with a probing gaze.
Darcy spoke to the elderly maid. “These talismans were at your hands?”
“Aye, Sir. I do my best to protect those at Woodvine, including yer wife,” she admitted.
Barriton gave the woman a hearty shake. “Mrs. Jacobs thinks herself a witch hunter.” The butler’s voice held pure contempt.
This situation had proved itself another in which Darcy recognized his vulnerability. Since entering Dorset, his sense of right and wrong had remained off kilter. Forcing the thought away, Darcy’s hands flexed at his side. He did not acknowledge the butler’s assertion; instead, he asked Barriton to clarify what the man hoped to accomplish by holding Mrs. Jacobs hostage. “Surely, you recognize the futility of this stance. You have no weapons and are surrounded by those who do. You have been seen by four who would testify against you if you managed to briefly escape.”
Barriton reached into his robe and brought forth a ceremonial knife. “You err, Mr. Darcy. I do have the means to protect myself.” The man placed the point against Mrs. Jacobs’ throat. “Or to take another’s life.”
Darcy’s heart flinched with horror. A savage smile twisted his lips. He could not permit Barriton to harm the elderly maid. The woman was blameless in this madness. Darcy softened his voice. “The maid is insignificant in these circumstances. Mrs. Jacobs’s superstitious nature is no cause for murder. Release the woman. As it stands, you will be prosecuted as a vagrant, and know a fine and some time in gaol, but if you hurt Mrs. Jacobs, you will hang.” The butler’s eyes darted to and fro in a frenzied manner, and Darcy suspected this would not end well.
Barriton asked with contempt, “Will you forget Mr. Hotchkiss, Mr. Darcy? I think not.” Darcy had not put Hotchkiss’s death from his mind; yet, he had hoped to negotiate with the butler for the release of the maid before facing the issue of the Woodvine steward’s death. “I have no options before me,” Barriton declared.
Darcy edged closer. With a slight flick of his wrist, he motioned the others to remain alert. He carefully considered his words. “These are not incurable faults. I have no proof of Hotchkiss’s demise. Unless you speak otherwise, the steward’s death cannot be laid at your feet.” He stepped boldly into the realm of the butler’s reach.
Barriton laughed without humor. “I chose my path years ago. I cannot look back with regret.” With those words, the butler took a retreating step toward the fire. He dragged Mrs. Jacobs with him, and Darcy hesitated long enough to give Barriton the advantage. Deceptively quick for a man of his build, Barriton lifted the maid’s fragile form from the ground and flung the woman into the fire.
“McKye!” Darcy yelled to the man who had already hurtled several of those on the ground to charge into the midst of the fire. A blood-chilling scream said the woman suffered, but Darcy would not turn his head to view McKye’s success or failure. Instead, he slowly stalked the butler.
The man’s boot searched for solid footing before he took each retreating step. Darcy watched carefully as the butler brandished the jewel-encrusted knife. He towered over the man by some four inches, but that fact provided no comfort. Barriton’s demeanor spoke of one who acted in desperation, like a rabid animal; therefore, Darcy practiced caution.
He could have simply shot the butler, but Darcy suspected the man held answers to so many of Woodvine’s m
ysteries that he held hopes of apprehending the man alive. “Do not make matters worse, Barriton,” he warned. From his eye’s corner he could see McKye rolling the body of Mrs. Jacobs in the dirt to smother the fire. He heard Holbrook order the dozen or so women who sat upon the ground to remain where they were.
The butler maintained his steady retreat, and they were soon covered by the shadows. “You realize I cannot permit you to simply walk away,” Darcy declared.
Barriton snarled, “And I cannot permit you to place me in custody.”
Darcy steeled his resolve. He brought the gun into position. He had hunted grouse and rabbits, had fished, had even killed the occasional fox, but Darcy had never shot a man. He wondered how many times Edward had looked into another’s countenance and pulled the trigger. Darcy swallowed hard against the roll of his stomach. Determinedly, he lifted his hand and was surprised to observe that it did not shake. “I will ask you once more to surrender.”
Yet, before he could act, someone hit him from behind, a mighty blow across his shoulder blades. Darcy pitched forward and staggered to keep his balance. “Bloody hell...” he growled through tightly clenched teeth. Bent over and gasping for breath, Darcy glanced up to see a tree branch. “Run, Jacks,” his attacker yelled to the butler, and Darcy was sore to react before the man’s footsteps announced his escape.
Darcy dropped to his knees He shook his head in desperate denial as his vision blurred. From behind him, those in pursuit breezed past him. The woman who had struck him darted around him, but Darcy had the forethought to catch the female’s long flowing robe and to give it a hard yank, pulling her backwards to land less than a foot from where he staggered to his feet. “I am a gentleman,” he growled, “but if you move one hair, I will cuff you.”
The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy Page 32